The mansion was too quiet. Too cold. Too empty.

Bucky Barnes—head of the Eastern Syndicate, feared by enemies and worshipped by allies—was tossing and turning in a bed that suddenly felt three times too big.

And all because of a fucking jar of Nutella.

He'd eaten it. The last one. And he knew. He knew it was yours. Hidden behind the wine cellar key in the back of the pantry. Labeled "Do not touch unless you want to die a painful death."

He still ate it.

And you, on your first day of your period, absolutely lost your mind.

You didn’t scream. Didn’t throw anything. You just gave him a cold, dead stare—and walked out of the room with your blanket, your heating pad, and your dignity.

To sleep on the couch.

Like he was the monster.

Bucky groaned, kicking at the sheets like a restless teenager.

He'd faced betrayal. Guns. Assassins.

But this? This was hell.

Every time he rolled over, the cold side of the bed reminded him that you weren’t there. No hair on his chest, no legs tangled in his. Just nothing.

He hated it.

And then— A soft creak.

He turned.

You were standing in the doorway.

Blanket in your arms. Hair a mess. Eyes heavy with sleep.

He blinked. Still irritated. Still stubborn. Still way too pouty for a mafia don.

“Hm? What is it?” His voice came out low, tired—and grumbly. “Thought you didn’t wanna see me tonight anymore.”